The Convent Half Hour

That half hour we have it's like
something wild running
to the delicate edge of earshot in months
when light is translucent
as a well-strained jelly.

We live by the clock and the bell but that half hour
lasts longer than the yellow smell of hayfields,
longer than doubt and I suspect
God loves what we call ours
more than what we have named his:

more than hems soaking up matins dew,
more than jams and hand-made cards,
courgettes, pears and the chapel flowers;
more than bread rising, hymn choosing and the worship
so minutely prepared.

Thirty minutes for angels to guard,
...